Wind Your Way Down
by StrangePhenomenon
Summary: Things hunters are good at: shooting guns, saving lives, thinking on their feet. Things hunters are bad at: moving on. Moving forward. Living life. Written for the Sam Dean OTP Minibang. WARNING for major character death, general dark feel, and some creepy imagery.


**Title:** Wind Your Way Down  
><strong>Author:<strong> tekuates  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> no pairing  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13 ish  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 14, 671  
><strong>WarningsContains: **major character death, general darkness, some creepy imagery  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Things hunters are good at: shooting guns, saving lives, thinking on their feet. Things hunters are bad at: moving on. Moving forward. Living life.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Written for the 2014 Sam Dean OTP Minibang! Title from the Gerry Rafferty song "Baker Street". Art made by the fantastic angelus2hot.

Art Masterpost | Fic on Livejournal | Fic on Archive of Our Own

It wasn't raining, but Sam wished it would. The February light was cold and clear, though the sky was cloudy. It was the kind of chilly that demands a long, lazy day of sitting by a fire, dozing off into a book, maybe a mug of hot chocolate sitting nearby, sending off slow curls of steam into the air. And the rain, hammering out a rhythm on the roof and making strange patterns down the windowpanes. But it wasn't raining, so Sam just stared out the window, at the back parking lot of this week's rundown motel, wrapped in the thin polyester comforter. It wasn't a fire and hot chocolate, but it was as close as Sam was going to get.

"Hey," Dean said from the other bed, breaking the silence that had been going on for at least an hour.

"Hey," Sam replied, not turning away from the window. There were a couple crows perched in the branches of a rickety looking walnut tree. As Sam watched, one flew up and perched on a telephone wire, leaving the other to look around confusedly before joining it with a small _crah-crah-crah_. The first crow ruffled itself all over, then smoothed its feathers down with a shake of its head.

"Could you –" Dean sounded vaguely amused. "You wanna come out of your nest there so I can actually hear you?"

Sam scowled at the crows, then rolled over so he was facing Dean. This only wrapped the blankets around him even more, swaddling him like an infant. Dean was nearly smiling. The cold grey light cast his face into sharp relief; he looked thin and tired, despite his expression of near amusement.

"Where do you want to go next?" Dean asked. His hands moved restlessly over the keyboard of the laptop, fidgeting but not really typing. Sam made a _mmmph_ sound and buried his face briefly in the covers.

"Um. What?"

"I don't know how you do it," Sam said.

"Do what?"

"I just want to go to sleep and you're planning our next case. I don't know where you find the energy." He couldn't help the slightly biting tone on the last sentence, because he knew Dean didn't have the energy.

"It's two in the afternoon, Sam. You're not eighty years old."

Sam shrugged, which probably wasn't visible outside his cocoon. "It's that kind of day. Can't you just, you know, relax for a while? We can plan a case later."

Dean rubbed the back of a hand over his mouth, a tired, precise gesture he had started doing at some point. "Fine," he said, putting his hand back to the laptop. "You sleep the day away, and I'll do all the work." The words were joking, but his voice wasn't. It wasn't angry either, though; just neutral.

"Sounds good to me," Sam replied, and let his eyes slide shut. Despite the lack of rain, after a few minutes of listening to Dean typing, he began to doze off, a thick and inviting tiredness sweeping over him.

_The crows were back._

_They were in the tree again – but it wasn't small or brittle-looking anymore. It was a huge, ancient oak. Though it was dark outside, the branches seems illuminated, but by no light source Sam could see. High in the gnarled limbs, he thought he could see hints of gold and silver catching the light. A breeze ruffled through the leaves and Sam could feel it because – _

– _he was suddenly outside on the tarmac of the parking lot, looking up at the tree and the two birds perched in it. Up close, Sam was struck by the size of the crows. And now they were looking at him, glittering eyes fixed on him. _

_He walked closer until he was only a few feet away, hesitated, then reached out and put a hand on the cool, ridged bark. The moment his fingers touched the tree, one of the crows let out a harsh caw, leaping into flight, and Sam jerked his hand back in surprise. It flew higher – then, with a suddenness that took Sam a moment to register, it took a sharp turn and hit the motel window full force. _

_The crow didn't make a sound as it tumbled to the ground, except the thud as it hit the tarmac. A stray feather wafted into the air, then floated slowly back down onto the pavement._

_The second crow made a quiet _raaarrk_ sound, and flew over to its fallen companion, alighting beside it on the ground. It inspected the other crow, nudging it with its beak. When the fallen crow didn't respond, the second one began cawing, over and over, hopping around the corpse in distress._

_At that moment, the window of the room next to his and Dean's exploded outward in a shower of glass and fire. Sam threw a hand up instinctively at the brightness, staggering slightly from the shock wave._

"_Dean," he gasped – or tried to, but no words came out. He ran full-tilt across the parking lot, throwing open the door to his room._

_The wall between the two rooms was already on fire, but Dean was just lying there on the bed. In a panic Sam ran to him and tugged on his arm. Dean opened his eyes and smiled, his eyes sparkling._

"_Oh, there you are, Sammy," Dean said. "Come to see the show?" He nodded to the burning wall, and Sam saw that the TV was still on, playing some soap._

Dean_, he wanted to say, and _Are you crazy?_ But no words would come out, as before, so he just tugged on Dean's arm again, urgently._

"_Hey," Dean said. "Hey, it's alright. Don't worry about it."_

_Sam shook his head, and kept trying to pull Dean off the bed. Dean allowed Sam to pull him into a sitting position and put a hand on either side of Sam's face._

"_It's gonna be okay, Sammy. Calm down, just take a breath." Dean was still smiling, just a little. Sam heard a caw, and realized the crow was in the room, perched on the desk lamp. It was staring right at him, almost accusingly._

"_The fire can't hurt us. You know that. We're already dead, you and I," Dean said, and Sam tried to wrench away, but Dean just held him there, staring at him with eyes that were now cold and empty and utterly uninterested in Sam's fear. Sam felt something collide with the back of his head and realized after a moment that it had been the crow. All he could hear was the sound of flapping as the crow flew at him over and over again, buffeting Sam with its wings. In between the beating wings, all Sam could see were Dean's hollow eyes. One of the crow's talons scraped across Sam's face and Sam cried out and it was silent and loud all at once and – _

- and he was in his motel bed, his feet tangled in the sweaty sheets, breathing fast and shallow. Sam's mouth was dry and his tongue felt huge and hot. He sat up slowly, a headache beginning to pound behind one eye.

"I was just about to wake you," Castiel said from the other side of the room, and Sam jerked in surprise, almost knocking over the plastic cup of water on his bedside table. "I need to speak with you and Dean."

"What about?" Sam asked, then drained the cup of lukewarm water. A stray drop fell from the rim of the cup and ran slowly down his chin and kept going down his neck, leaving a trail of coolness behind. He looked at the other bed, which was empty. "Where is Dean, anyway?"

"In the parking lot," Castiel said, trailing off in a suggestive way. Sam stared at him, and Castiel grimaced slightly. "Smoking," Castiel finished reluctantly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Of course he is. Did he ask you not to tell me?"

"No. He did not see me. I suspect, however, that he did not want me to tell you."

"No kidding," Sam said, just as the door opened and Dean came in, trailing gloom behind him. His hair looked wet. Sam kicked off the covers entirely and stood. "Hey, is it raining?"

"Drizzling," Dean said, "and I think it's turning to sleet."

"So, Cas has something he wants to ask us." He sank back down on the bed, still feeling groggy.

Castiel stepped forward. "Yes. There is a matter – a matter I would feel more at ease knowing that you two were keeping track of."

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"Nothing concrete," Castiel said. "I've been hearing rumors. A new hunter. Or – not new, exactly." He was silent for a moment.

"You wanna give us a little more to go on?" Dean said.

Castiel shook his head, seeming far away. "Yes. My apologies. This hunter was known before now, but for the usual hunting work. She was quite adept at it. But now she has begun targeting angels."

"Angels," Sam said, "why angels? They've hardly been in the game lately."

Castiel shrugged, a gesture recently learned and still a bit stiff. "I don't know. She has not, as yet, managed to kill any of them. But her attempts are growing more fruitful."

Sam didn't say anything more as Dean got the rest of the minutiae from Castiel. Sam was watching Castiel, because all of this sounded strange to Sam. Some piece of information that was missing and shouldn't have been, something that Castiel clearly knew. Castiel was not good at hiding things, except, of course, when he was.

"Alright," Dean said, and Sam focused again. "We'll look into it – I found another case in that area anyway, so we can check both out."

"A case?" Sam said, trying to keep the whine out his voice, probably failing. "I thought we weren't gonna work a case for a little while."

"Funny, isn't it," Dean said, "that when you sleep all afternoon, other people get to make the decisions." Sam scowled. Castiel chose that moment to disappear, the inrush of air ruffling Sam's hair.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked. It probably wasn't worth it to argue; in the end they'd be on the case anyway, but in angry silence, and Dean stayed pissed off for a long time these days.

"Do you pay attention to anything anymore?" Dean said. His tone should have been biting, but it wasn't. It wasn't much of anything. Before Sam said anything, Dean went on, "It's in Vermont. If we get moving now, we can make it by late tonight, so get your ass in gear. I'm gonna go check out and shit." Dean clomped off without waiting for an answer.

Sam sighed, then got up and retrieved his duffel bag from the desk. He went through the room quickly; they had been there for a few days, but there wasn't much left out. Just a toothbrush (his – Sam wasn't too sure how often Dean brushed his teeth) and an aging tube of toothpaste were on the sink, and a book lay on Sam's side of the bedside table. He tossed them into his duffel bag without much care, and was out the door.

Dean was already in the car, sitting sideways in the driver's seat with the door open. As Sam approached the car, Dean swiveled to face forward, slamming the door shut. Sam put his bag into the trunk and slid into the passenger's side.

Dean started the car and pulled out of the parking lot smoothly, making a left onto the road. As he did, Sam caught a glimpse at his watch.

"Holy shit, it's four o'clock?"

"Sure is. That's what happens when you dream the day away, Sleeping Beauty."

"Weird," Sam said. "I didn't think I was asleep for that long."

Dean shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. "So, you wanna hear about the case? Since you were apparently checked out at the time."

"Sure, hit me," Sam said.

"This town in Vermont, I forget what it's called – "

"Yeah, I can tell you were paying a ton of attention," Sam said.

"Shut up. I know how to get there, that's all that matters. Anyway – "

The upshot was that a river near this town, the imaginatively named Green River, has had an abnormal amount of suicides. Four so far, all in the same place – or, at least, they all ended up in the same place, even though they had jumped in at various points along the river.

"So what?" Sam said at this point. "The current could have carried them to that spot. Maybe the river narrows there or something."

Dean shakes his head. "One of the people jumped in downstream from the place. Still ended up there, and no evidence that someone physically picked them up and moved them."

"It's probably just an angry spirit," Sam said. "Dean – "

Dean didn't say anything, waiting for Sam to continue. "What, Sam," he said, after Sam doesn't.

Sam wanted to ask why, why are they _taking _this case, Castiel had just given them a case and this one was weak tea by comparison. There were enough hunters in the world now that they didn't need to deal with every stranded spirit they came across. Sam and Dean's talents were better suited to things that others couldn't deal with. But Dean looked tight, like a wire, and Sam knew why they were taking this case. Dean wanted the easy familiarity of hunting something down and then killing it, like the old days. It made Sam crazy. He wanted to yell at Dean that he was pretty sure that once they stopped the apocalypse, once they had both _gone to Hell_, nothing was going to be the same, that Sam wasn't who he had been two, three years ago. ButSam said instead, "Did you get a weird vibe off of Cas?"

"Like what kind of weird vibe?"

"I don't know. But I got the feeling he knew more about this hunter than he said. He seemed – I don't know. Strange."

"You could be right," Dean said. "Only way to find out is to follow any leads we find. And hope it isn't the kind of thing that'll get us killed."

They were silent for a long while after that. Sam found himself dozing despite his earlier two hours of sleep. It wasn't a restful sleep, or at least Sam didn't think it was. But by the time he woke up all the way, it was getting dark. The sky was a deepening blue, the clouds looming black-grey. It looked like a watercolor painting. Dean had that look, too, in the driver's seat, the occasional headlights flickering over his face.

Sam had been slouching against the door; now he pushed himself upright, brushing his hair out of his face.

"How – " he began, but his voice was very rusty and nearly inaudible. He cleared his throat and tried again. "How far are we?"

Dean startled slightly and looked at Sam for a second. "Not far," he said, his voice quiet, almost hushed. "Few hours, less if I speed." One side of his mouth quirked up.

"Nah," Sam said. He was looking out the window. There was forest everywhere, and mountains were beginning to form out of the gloom, huge and impassive. The road was nearly empty, just a semi a while ahead, and the occasional car in the other direction. "I like the drive, no need to cut it short."

Dean smiled at that, a real smile though small. Sam could tell he agreed. Dean liked driving more than most things; he seemed to derive a strange sort of energy from it. Truthfully, Sam liked it too, the way the tires ate up the road in front of them, racing to get over the next hill, the road stretching and bending ahead of him. Sam always mocked Dean for speeding, but the truth was that he was the speed demon of the two of them. Dean would happily drive at an even fifty-five miles per hour, but Sam would often find himself going eighty-five with no recollection of speeding up at all. While Dean got exuberant from hours of highway driving, Sam felt intoxicated, loose and relaxed.

The moon was swollen that night, hanging low and flushed in the darkening sky. Sam watched it follow them through the sky, and almost didn't notice drifting off to sleep again.

Dean's voice woke him this time, a low "Sam." Sam startled awake.

"Yeah," he said roughly, dragging himself upright, not yet fully awake. "Whassup?"

"We're here," Dean said. "Come on, time to sleep in an actual bed." Sam nodded, though Dean probably couldn't see him in the dark of the car. He sat a moment before he got up and headed around to the trunk to get his bag. Sam took a deep breath. It was cold, of course – February in Vermont – but the air felt good. The sky was clear now, stars like dim jewels against it, that huge moon seeming to drip light onto the trees that lined the horizon. Sam gazed upward for a moment and then, hoisting up his bag, he followed Dean, his boots crunching on the snow-encrusted asphalt.

The hotel was not their usual fare; it was a large colonial style house, with shutters and columns and the works. Sam gave Dean a look as they approached. Dean shrugged pointedly.

"It was all I could find at short notice. Should go along with your, ah, aesthetic, huh, Sammy?"

"Whatever," Sam muttered, not entirely sure what that meant, but sure that it was meant to be insulting. "We could have left tomorrow morning, gotten a less – quaint place to stay."

"Could've, but it's in the same area that this hunter was last sighted. And Cas sounded pretty worried." Dean sounded abruptly defensive.

"Or you just wanted to drive, you weirdo," Sam said. Dean said nothing, only smiled a tight half-smile. It wasn't that these new expressions of Dean's didn't seem genuine to Sam. Rather, it seemed entirely possible that a half-smile was just all Dean had in him these days. Sam would rather have him being a lying bastard any day. Dean could run hot and he could run cold; though hot was much more intimidating, it was the cold that was impossible to penetrate. Or it was just a skill Sam hadn't mastered yet. Either way, walking in to the hotel – bed and breakfast, actually, Sam learned – checking in, and heading up to their room was all done in silence.

The room was done in chintz all over, blue and white and pale green. Instead of the plastic cups that frequented the motels Sam was accustomed to, a small tea tray sat on the carved desk. Sam briefly considered belatedly smacking Dean for his comment about Sam's aesthetic, but decided against it. Dean was in a reserved mood; Sam would be more likely to receive a chilly smile than anything else.

Instead, Sam dropped his bag onto the desk and then sat down on the edge of one of the beds, this time the one further from the window. He toed his shoes off tiredly, slipped his watch over his hand and dropped it onto the side table. He had slept too much today already, but he could feel exhaustion folding softly around him. Sam sighed and stood, stripping down to boxers and undershirt, slid into bed, and was asleep in minutes.

_The moon was so bright._

_Moonlight often felt cold to Sam, distant; but not tonight. The moonlight was scorching in its intensity, silvering everything it touched and leaving heavy shadows in the places it could not reach. _

_They were standing underneath the tree, him and Dean. Dean was looking at him, and his eyes were practically glowing with reflected light._

"_Heya, Sammy," he said, and his tone was rough and amused. He smiled, that crazy light in his eyes, that enthusiasm that Sam hadn't seen in – hell, in years._

"_Dean," Sam said, "what are we – why are you – "_

_Sam broke off. Dean was looking at him, but Sam was looking into the tree, the twisted old branches reaching and reaching for the light. He was struck with a sudden joy at the sight of the tree, filled with exhilaration as the leaves began to shake in a building wind._

"_Dean, Dean, the wind!" Sam said. In the tree now he could see the two crows. They made no aggressive movement towards him now, just looking at him, their eyes dark and aware. Sam laughed, unable to help it at the feeling of the tremendous wind sweeping through his hair and tugging at his clothes. One of the crows cawed, and the air threw the sound into the sky, made it huge. It could have been frightening, but Sam had the feeling that they understood his joy and were responding in kind. Sam nodded to the crows, and to his astonishment, the two of them bent their heads back at him. _

_He looked back at Dean, who was still watching him, his eyes like stars in the night. _

"_Did you see them?" he asked. _

_Dean shook his head, and Sam thought the movement seemed abrupt, tense. "Dean, what's wrong?"_

"_They don't want me to stay," Dean said. He was shivering a little bit in the cold air. "They said I have to go with them."_

"_Do you want to go?" Sam asked._

"_I have to stay," Dean said, "I have to stay here with you."_

"_Yeah, but Dean, if you want to – "_

"_Don't matter what I want, Sammy, I've got to _stay_, you _know_ I do," Dean said, the happiness, the wildness leaving his face. He looked drained and grey and tired, or maybe that was the moonlight, which had soured somehow, seeming less silver than a harsh grey-yellow, highlighting every leaf on the tree in unpleasant detail._

"_Not if you don't want to," Sam said. "Dean…"_

"_No!" Dean said, shoving Sam away from him. "Just shuddup, okay? Just _shut up_,"_

"_Come on, what're you – " _

_But Sam stopped what he was saying as he saw the crows, no longer in the tree. One was on the ground again, the other hopping around the corpse futilely, nudging it at first, but then tearing savagely at it with its beak in an effort to wake it. As Sam watched, the one left alive turned to look at him. The aware, almost friendly intelligence had left its eyes; it looked mean and stupid and angry, and it hurled itself into flight at him and Dean, faster than was possible, and Sam could only see its beak opening hugely wide in the grey-yellow light, and its dark beating wings and – _

"Sam."

Sam floundered between sleep and waking for a moment. "Whuh?" he said.

"Sam, wake up. Jesus. How much sleep can one person need?" Dean said. He added, an afterthought, "Even one as gigantic as you." He tossed a pair of jeans onto Sam's stomach. "Come on. Time's a'wastin'."

"Coming," Sam said, or a grunt that sounded approximately the same.

"What were you dreaming about, anyway? Usually you just snore, not jabber away in some made up gibberish language."

Sam frowned, trying to think. _Light, light –_

He shook his head. "I can't remember."

"Well, come on, dude, rise and shine."

Fifteen minutes later, Sam slid into the chair opposite Dean at the table, showered, dressed, and halfway through a cup of coffee, unfortunately in one of the tiny flowered teacups. The chair creaked worryingly under Sam's weight; maybe it was actually as old as it looked, not an imitation.

"So what's the deal?" Sam asked.

"Some kind of spirit, I think. River must be haunted by something – something that's pulling people to it. Or that one part of it, at least."

"You think the river is causing people to kill themselves?"

Dean shrugged, typing busily. "Not sure. It's definitely pulling their bodies to that one place, but I don't think it's causing people to be suicidal. Otherwise why didn't they just jump in right there? There's plenty of hauntings that kill people in one spot. But this is grabbing them after they bite it. Maybe there's just a lot of depressed people lately, and the spirit's taking advantage."

"Maybe it's just not a strong enough force to be accurate. They were all fairly close to that one place."

"Maybe." Dean hit enter, clicked on something. "Okay. So, one of the people, Mark Weissmann, lived alone, no family in the area, plus his was a while ago. Probably nothing to go on there. Then a girl, about seventeen – looks like the family moved away, being here reminded them of their kid, blah blah blah."

"Don't be a dick," Sam said. "Losing a kid does worse to families all the time. It's hard."

"Whatever, dude. Anyway, the last one is the one I think we'll get something out of. Young girl, really young. Twelve, I think. This was the most recent one, recent enough that we won't completely freak out the family by asking questions. Or," Dean tilted his head, his mouth twisting ironically, "we will, but they won't think it's out of the blue."

"Yeah," Sam said. "So what do you think's haunting the river?"

"Don't know. I was thinking we could go to the river, see what's up, then go from there."

"Alright, sounds good," Sam said.

They drove to the river and parked in a snowy parking area next to it. The path down to the river was steep; Sam slid down most of it, grabbing a tree at the bottom to stop himself from being launched into the river.

This bank of the river was, according to a guidebook they had found in the hotel, comprised of wide, flat boulders, not that they were visible under the snow. Sam followed Dean out to the edge, sinking slightly with each step. A thin, fragile layer of ice was forming at the very edge of the river.

"So where's the spot?" Sam asked.

Dean pointed to a bridge fifty feet or so upstream. "The far bank right after that bridge. That's where all three bodies were found. Here's where the youngest girl jumped in." He pointed at a higher boulder a little way upstream. "Kara. Someone saw her jump in from there, and ran down here to try and get her out. By that time, she was under. They didn't find her body for another couple days – by that time, it was at the hot spot."

"Twelve years old, Jesus," Sam said. Dean grunted agreement.

"Any connection between the three?" Sam asked after a moment.

"Some, nothing much. The guy, Mark, was a guidance counselor at the local high school; the seventeen-year-old, Tina, was one of the kids he met with. And Tina knew Kara's family somehow. But it's a small town, so it might not be a pattern."

"I guess we'll have to see if we can find anything more significant when we talk to the family."

"Yeah." Dean looked out at the river for another minute, then at Sam. "Family, then breakfast?"

Sam nodded absentmindedly. He could feel an idea taking shape, as he looked at the bridge one last time before heading to the car. But it was still vague and nebulous, so Sam left it alone for the moment.

Detectives were an easy alias; suit, badge, harried look. Dean relied on the gullibility of the average person; dress like a detective and people will think you are one. Almost always, anything strange you do will get rationalized away. Sam couldn't do that; he had always been bad at winging it. He needed to sink entirely into the role, shaking out his suit pants and jacket a little bit before he put them on, rumpling them. He usually changed into his disguise early, sat around in the hotel room wearing it, so it didn't look like something that had been thrown on, new, ten minutes ago. Sam practiced taking his badge out, flipping it confidently between his fingers. He found safety in making these things second nature.

When they showed up at the house, it was only ten o'clock, and Sam's stomach was starting to rumble. It was snowing, lightly, or maybe it was just flakes being swept into the air by the light, chilly breeze. Sam was feeling the cold; none of their cold-weather clothes went with the detective suits. Next to him on the front step, Dean, who had always been more susceptible to the cold, was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, breathing hot air onto his fingers. Sam knocked, and after a moment, the door opened.

"Hello, Mrs. Walker?" Sam said. "Detectives Larkin and Curie."

She was wiry, and thin, dark-skinned, her hair held back with a paint-splattered bandana. Her face was long, and there were deep laugh lines, curving elegantly around her mouth. She must have laughed a lot in her life to get lines like that, but she wasn't laughing now; her mouth was lax, almost drooping. She looked like a doll with its strings cut.

"Yes?" she asked.

"We're very sorry to bother you, ma'am," Sam said. "We needed to go over some things with you."

She didn't say anything, didn't ask to see their badges, only pulled the door open. They followed her into a book-strewn room, stacks of papers on a desk on the brink of tipping over. Sam sat on the dusty couch, and Dean sank down cautiously beside him.

"My wife is at work," she said. "I don't know if you need her as well."

"I don't think so," Sam said. "We just have to – well, we're not really the right people for the job, but our department is trying to, ah, work with the schools and so on to start some sort of support for depressed students, and," he was now improvising wildly, going with his instinct that said that it wasn't facts they needed, times and dates, but personal details, "we were wondering what you could tell us about Kara, what you think could have, ah, helped her in the weeks leading up to her, her – decision."

It was such a stupid word for him to use, sounds like Kara was choosing a college, but Sam thought that saying _suicide_ or _took her own life_ might shatter this woman. There was an awful moment where she just looked at him, silent in her grief.

"Well," Mrs. Walker began, "I, I'm not sure. What it was, that is, that tipped the, ah…but she was never the same after…" She trailed off.

"After what, Mrs. Walker?" Dean said, too quickly, too eagerly.

"Her brother," she replied. "I don't know if you two know about the case – but it changed Clai – her. All of us." She was hunched over herself, her eyes beginning to well up, red and tired looking.

Sam shot a glance at Dean; Dean was looking at Mrs. Walker, his eyes hooded and considering.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Walker," Sam said. "If you'd like – we could come back, continue this another time – "

He hadn't even finished before she was nodding. "Yes. I'm sorry, I…it's hard to talk about."

"I can't imagine," Sam said, somewhat honestly. He had lost a lot of people, after all. "I'll leave my card, and feel free to call if you want to."

They left in a hurry, Dean glaring at Sam the whole time. "You know, we might need more than that."

"I don't think so," Sam said, shaking his head. "I think the brother is the piece we were missing. Besides, that was awful. I didn't exactly want to pump her for information."

Dean made a conceding face. "Alright, let's go get some breakfast."

Dean parked on the street, grudgingly plunking quarters into a meter. They headed to the one restaurant that looked open, a little Mexican place across the street, ordered, and situated themselves at a table in the back.

Dean opened the laptop and started typing. "Okay, so, Walker…"

"You want me to do that?" Sam asked. "You've been doing practically all the research."

Dean waved him off. "Whatever." He hit enter triumphantly. "Yahtzee. The son, Brandon, went missing about a year and a half ago. Never found."

"Well, that doesn't give us much to go on," Sam said.

"That's not all. The girl, Tina, was one of his closest friends, and the guy, Mark whatever, was his guidance counselor."

"So there is a connection," Sam said, then heard their order number being called. "Hold on a sec."

He walked over to the counter and showed his receipt to the pretty blonde behind it. "Here you go," she said, and slid him a tray.

"Thanks," Sam said. There was something bothering him about this girl, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "Uh – "

She looked at him expectantly. "Uh, where's the, uh, hot sauce?"

"Right there, by the soda machine," she said, pointing.

"Thanks," he said, and walked over to it, filling a couple of the paper hot sauce cups with green hot sauce before heading back to the table.

He plunked down the tray and sat back down, still feeling uneasy. "Hey, Dean, does that girl look familiar to you?"

Dean looked where Sam was indicating, his hands busily unwrapping his burrito. "What girl?"

Sam turned around to see the counter was now unmanned. "Huh. Must have gone into the kitchen." He shifted in his chair so he was facing Dean again. "So, did you find anything?"

"Maybe," Dean said around a mouthful of half-chewed burrito. Sam winced and looked away before he started on his quesadilla. "But," Dean continued, still chewing, "it might not work. Gotta call Bobby and find out."

They finished eating quickly. After they were done, Sam left Dean to call Bobby and headed into the small bathroom to wash his hands.

When he came out, Dean was still on the phone. "Well, that's good news – what?" Dean looked annoyed. "Huh. Well, we'll see what we get with it. See ya." He hung up his phone and dropped it into an inside pocket on his leather jacket.

"So what's the deal?" Sam asked.

"Tell you in the car. C'mon."

Once they were in the car, Dean started driving, but not towards the hotel.

"So, I found a spell. Should give us what we need, if it works. Basically, we say the words, plus the name of the person we're interested in, the spell throws our minds back to the last pivotal moment in their life – or death – and shows us what happened."

"Wow," Sam said. "Sounds useful. Why have I never heard of it?" He noticed a crappy pickup truck pulling out after them, and felt nervousness tickle down his spine. His instincts always made him feel like he was being followed; it made it very hard to relax.

"You usually can't do it," Dean said. "World-walls are too thick or something. I don't know." When Sam gave him a questioning look, he sighed and continued. "Basically, the barriers between worlds, times, whatever, are fragile right now. It's a cycle, every forty-nine years."

"Seven times seven," Sam said. "That's a powerful number."

"Thank you, Giles, I can do basic math. Anyway, the other thing is we need to know where it happened. Not where the body is, but wherever the event we wanna see happened." They came to a T intersection, turned left. The pickup turned right, and Sam felt tension leave muscles that he hadn't even known were at the ready.

"How're we gonna find that?" he asked.

"Don't know. I thought we'd try a few likely spots at the river, then move to the unlikely ones if that doesn't pan out." Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot they had been in before.

"Okay," Sam said. "So I assume first on your list is the hot spot."

"You got it," Dean said.

They walked across the bridge, each with a shovel held as inconspicuously as you could hold a large, metal, dirt covered tool. In the hand that wasn't currently occupied with his shovel, Sam carried a duffel bag with a can of gasoline, and a canister of salt. They had learned long ago that having to go back to the car for supplies not only was a tedious waste of time, but once the spirit knew their intentions, was actually dangerous. It just gave whatever they were fighting more time to fling them around, and Sam didn't need more scars.

They arrived at the spot, an inauspicious-looking stretch of muddy snow. Sam jammed his shovel blade-first into the ground so it stood up and dropped the bag next to it; Dean did the same with his shovel.

Sam raised an eyebrow and looked at Dean.

"Right," Dean said, and pulled Dad's journal out of his jacket, flipping it open to the page he wanted, then began to read in Latin.

It wasn't a long incantation, but it was easy to tell that it wasn't working. You could feel spells take, once you had done enough of them. Since, technically, exorcisms were spells, Sam and Dean had done plenty. Sam could feel the words slipping uselessly through the air, not gaining traction on anything. He shook his head at Dean, and Dean stopped reading.

"Well, shit," Dean said. "What do we do now?"

Sam didn't answer; he was looking at the bridge they had crossed. His hunch from earlier was taking a more definite shape. "Dean," he said, "look at the current."

"Yeah? So what?"

"If you were standing on the bridge," Sam said, then swallowed thickly, "and you dropped something heavy into the water, say, a body…it would end up right here."

Dean looked between the bank and the bridge. "Looks about right," he said. "But how does that help us? The spell didn't take here."

"Let's try it on the bridge, then. But if it shows us what I think it will – our answer is right here."

"I'd rather check, on the off chance that we won't have to dig up an ice-cold river bank." Dean started walking to the bridge, and Sam followed, leaving the shovels and bag. Once they were there, Dean began again, and this time, Sam could feel a minute catch, as if something had locked perfectly into place. As Dean kept reading, the world around him seemed to fade into fog.

There were two shadowy figures; they had hoods pulled over their faces, carrying something large between them. They looked sinister, horrible, moving slowly and bent with the weight. But as they drew closer to the railing of the bridge – and to Sam and Dean – one of them looked up, and Sam saw with surprise that it was a young woman rather than any sort of monster.

"This is stupid," she hissed. Sam and Dean both startled involuntarily at the sudden sharp sound.

"Maybe," said the other figure, a man who looked a little older. "But what else are we gonna do?"

"We could explain," the woman said. "It was an accident, I couldn't see him there – "

"You think anyone's gonna listen?" the man asked ferociously. "You were drunk. That's prison time. Now, this kid is dead, and there's nothing we can do. But we can save ourselves."

The woman was silent as they neared the edge of the bridge. The two of them dropped the body on the railing with a grunt, holding it there. "If we get caught, I'm blaming you," she said finally.

The man gave a dry laugh. "Yeah, whatever. C'mon, give me a hand." And they both heaved the body into the river. It hit with a heavy splash, and Sam saw the man swallow. Then he said "Come on, let's go," and the man and the woman left the bridge.

"No," said a voice from behind Sam, an unfamiliar voice. He turned to see Brandon Walker, or what was left of him, sitting huddled on the asphalt of the bridge. "No," the ghost said again.

"Hey – " Sam started, then remembered that he couldn't be heard. This was years ago.

"_No!"_ screamed Brandon, standing suddenly. He ran to the railing and leaned over it, staring at his body, now lodged, underwater, in the bank. His lips were moving, and when he stood up Sam could hear that he was saying, in a broken mumble, "Don't leave me here, don't, don't leave me here alone."

The ghost was crying now. "_Don't leave me alone!_" he cried, and as he fell to his knees, his spectral hands clutching uselessly at the railing of the bridge, the world began to blur again –

– and Sam was in the present day again, Dean beside him.

"Wow," Sam said. "Did you see that?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "I guess we have our answer. Kid was pulling in people he cared about so he didn't have to be alone."

Sam shook his head. "That's messed up." Dean said nothing, then suddenly his brow furrowed. He walked quickly over to the edge of the bridge.

"Sam," he said, quietly, "get over here."

Sam followed Dean over. "What are you –" Then he saw; the hole dug in the bank; the fire flickering almost merrily inside of it. He looked at Dean, a very bad feeling starting to form like a knot in his stomach. "Someone did that while we were in the vision." Sam said, turning, looking all around him, and saw –

"Dean, that pickup truck, I saw it earlier, and I thought it might be following us, but it turned off a different way – "

"This is not good," Dean said. "Who the hell is here?"

"I don't know," Sam said, "But I think we should get the hell out of here. Leave the shovels and stuff."

"Yeah," Dean said, already starting in the direction of the Impala. Sam followed. They walked quickly, silently across the bridge. Sam had all of his senses on alert, and he knew that Dean did too. They neared the Impala, and Sam started to relax. Fifty feet – twenty feet – ten feet –

A shape leaped at Dean from the trees around the parking lot, a blur; Sam caught a flash of blonde hair. Dean turned, fast, probably having caught the movement out of his peripheral vision. Before Dean and the person collided, though, Castiel was there, using an open palm to strike Dean's attacker hard enough that they – whoever they were – flew back and tumbled to the ground.

It was a girl, a teenager. She had long blonde hair, now tied back in a tight bun. She was, Sam realized, the girl from the Mexican place.

"Who are you?" Sam asked.

The girl grinned with no humor whatsoever. "You don't remember me? I guess I wouldn't fit so well in your backseat anymore."

It was Dean who said, finally, "_Claire?"_

"Good job," Claire said, slowly getting to her feet, brushing snow off her legs and back. "It's fine, Winchesters. I'm not here for you. This is what I'm after." Her eyes flicked to Castiel.

"Listen, I don't know what you're after, Claire, but…" Sam trailed off. Claire wasn't listening. She was entirely fixed on Castiel, her right hand going to her waist and pulling out a thin dagger. The point wobbled through the air, a small point of reflected light.

She moved, when she finally moved, faster than Sam would have thought. She knew what she was doing, knew her weaknesses and strengths well, never taking Castiel on head-on. She didn't have the strength to beat him like that and she knew it. She came at him from the side, ducked and weaved. Castiel held his own, of course. He was fighting her almost casually; without an angel blade, she posed no real threat to him. Castiel's eyes flicked to Dean, just for a second, and Sam realized that Dean was moving, slowly, stealthily, out of Claire's vision. Sam took the cue, and also started shifting to a less visible position, in case he was needed. As soon as Claire no longer had a good view of him, Dean moved very fast towards her.

Dean grabbed Claire in a headlock, and she made a sound that was almost surprised, like she had forgotten that anyone was there other than Castiel and herself. The surprise passed quickly, though; her face went hard, and she drove the thin blade backwards at Dean, gouging it into his side. Dean made a pained sound, and tightened his lock. After a moment, Claire's eyes fluttered as she fell unconscious, and the dagger clattered to the pavement. Her limp weight fell onto Dean, and he lowered her to the ground, not especially gently.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean said, sounding annoyed. "Just hurts like hell. Give me a hand, will you?"

They tied Claire up, hands behind her back and feet together, and put her in the back of the car. Then, moving together, they walked over to where Castiel was still standing, looking forlorn.

"So, Cas," Dean said. "Tell me, did you think it wasn't important that the _mysterious hunter_ we were looking for happened to be the _daughter of your vessel_? Oh yeah, and that she's suddenly a pro at hunting?"

"It wasn't important," Castiel said emphatically.

"Maybe," Dean said, "And maybe you just put us both in serious –" He broke off. "In serious –"

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asked. Dean didn't look good, now that he thought of it. His skin looked ashen. Sweat was rolling down his temples. Dean gave him a dazed, dizzy look.

"I," he said, and collapsed, gravel crunching beneath him as he fell.

"Shit," Sam swore, and crouched down beside Dean. "Dean, hey, can you hear me?" He looked up at Castiel. "What the hell just happened?"

"I don't know," Castiel said, a frown hovering on his brow. "I didn't think your brother was seriously injured."

"No, just a…" Sam thought about it for a moment. "The knife, maybe? Cas, can you grab it for me?"

Castiel turned and bent to pick up the dagger, then dropped it immediately, hissing out a pained breath. It lay on the gravel next to Sam, Castiel eyeing it like it was a venomous snake.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"A spell," Castiel said, still flexing his hand as if it didn't feel quite right. "And not a good one. You two are going to need more help than I can give."

"Bobby?"

Castiel nodded. "Probably your best bet. How long will it take you to drive there?"

"Nine, maybe ten hours. Cas –"

"I would try to get there faster, were I you," Castiel said, and then he was gone.

"_Dammit, _Cas!_"_ Sam swore. After a moment, he bent, got Dean's weight on his shoulder, and half-dragged, half-carried his brother to the car. There was nothing else he could do.

It should have taken ten hours; Sam did it in eight. Dean lolled in the passenger's seat. The way he was leaning, his neck looked broken. Sam knew it wasn't, but it scared him even so. Every time he looked at Dean, he pushed the Impala to go a little faster.

They were an hour or so away from Bobby's when Sam looked into the rearview mirror to see Claire looking back at him. Her neck craned awkwardly from her position, supine across the back seat, her legs awkwardly dangling off the side of the seat, knees banging every now and then against the door. She was silent, unmoving; she could have been conscious for hours for all Sam knew. This was fine. It didn't matter what she did at this point, and if she wanted to try escaping from a car going ninety, more power to her.

Claire said nothing when Sam's eyes met hers, which was good, because Sam was riding on the very edge on control.

It was dusk when they arrived, the light that would usually be a dim, dusky blue magnified by the reflecting snow. It felt like being underwater.

Sam honked the horn as he pulled in to the car lot, and Bobby was outside almost immediately, a shotgun held loosely in one hand.

"What is it?" Bobby asked as Sam got out of the car, slammed the door.

"Dean," Sam said, "stabbed. With some kind of weird knife, cursed or something – we have the hunter who did it trussed up in the back."

"A _hunter_ did it? Why?" As Bobby spoke, he opened the back door closest to him, dragged Claire out.

"I _mmmph!_" Claire was muffled as Bobby pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and stuffed it in her mouth.

"Sorry. I don't tend to trust hunters who go after other hunters," Bobby told her, and began towing her into the house. Claire awkwardly hobbled behind him; her feet were still tied together.

Sam opened the passenger's side door, and Dean fell onto him. Sam pushed him upright and held him there. "Dean? Hey, Dean. C'mon, wake up. Don't make me carry you, man." He shook Dean a little by the shoulders.

Dean made a soft, pained sound at that. His eyes opened about halfway, slid shut again. "Stoppit," he mumbled. "Hurts."

"I know, Dean, I'm sorry. But you've gotta get up, c'mon. Just walk to the house, okay? And then you can sleep, in a real bed and everything."

Dean shook his head, eyes more tightly closed now. "Can sleep here."

"No," Sam said, "no, you can't. C'mon, up." He pulled Dean partway up, and Dean seemed to get the idea, using Sam's arm to get fully upright, swaying a little bit. Sam kept a hand on the back of Dean's neck and used the other to close the door of the Impala. Abruptly, he felt Dean lurch, and got an arm around his waist before he could fall. Hooking one of Dean's arms around Sam's shoulders, Sam got him to half-walk, half stumble to the house.

Once inside, Sam dropped Dean on the nearest empty chair, and went into the kitchen. Claire was seating in a chair at the kitchen table, with Bobby standing over her holding a small silver dagger. As Sam sat in the chair across from Claire, Bobby made a small cut with the knife, drawing a muffled sound of pain from Claire.

"She's good," Bobby said, "as far as the supernatural goes, anyway – did salt, holy water, silver, the works. You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?"

"First," Sam started, "she's the daughter of Cas's vessel, Jimmy. We met her a couple years back." Bobby raised his eyebrows but said nothing. "Yeah, and apparently she's been going after angels, which is why we were in the area; Cas put us on her trail.

"So, today we had just finished up a case, when she comes out of nowhere. Cas showed up too, fought with her – Dean grabbed her and she got him pretty good," Sam reached into an inside pocket and fished out the knife, "with this. He collapsed right after we got her in the car, and Cas freaked out when he touched the thing. Said we needed help."

Bobby took the knife. "Probably spelled, but I don't recognize it." He yanked the gag out of Claire's mouth, and she coughed, glaring at him. "What's up with the pigsticker?"

One side of her mouth tilted up. "Nothing you're gonna like. Hey, can I have some water?"

Bobby glared at her, and she sighed. "It's spelled. Think of it like dead man's blood for angels. It weakens them, but not permanently. As for humans…I don't know."

"That's just great," Sam said. "You stabbed my brother with a spelled knife, and you don't know _what it's gonna do to him?_" He'd started yelling without realizing it. "Maybe you should be a little more careful with that thing! Or maybe you shouldn't be hunting at the ripe old age of what, fifteen, if you're gonna stab the wrong people!"

"I didn't make a mistake," Claire said, and she was looking at him with pity, he could see it, but no remorse. "I wasn't, you know, going for him, but I had to do what I had to do."

"You weren't going for him," Sam practically hissed. "Do you think that matters?" He turned away abruptly, his chest aching, and paused for a moment. Then, he said, trying for calm, "Bobby. What do you think it'll do?"

"I don't know, Sam." Bobby said. "Look, why don't you make up some beds, and get Dean situated. I'll start researching."

When Sam headed back down the stairs, trying not to make too much noise though he knew Dean was dead asleep, he could hear voices coming from the kitchen. He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, his shadow stretching out long.

Bobby and Claire were sitting at the table, leaning over a book together. Claire's arms were free now, and she was shaking her head at something Bobby was saying.

Sam lowered himself into the free chair, eyeing Claire suspiciously. "That's the thing," she was saying. "I didn't use just one spell, I combined a few."

"How many?" Bobby asked.

"Seven," Claire replied. "I layered them over each other. See, how it works is, the first three spells are for strength, power, accuracy. I mean, you have to get a decent shot first, but it makes sure the blade goes in deep enough, and in the right place. The last three are for the vessel, nonfatal drugs to slow it down. The middle one is the most important. It acts like a block between heaven and the angel."

"You can block out heaven?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Well, not really. It acts like a block, but really what it does is create a separation between the angel and its grace, temporarily."

"Separate an angel and its grace," Sam said dubiously.

"Yes," she said. "I know it sounds ridiculous. It's hard to do, really hard. Hence the other six spells.

"Now, the first three only matter if I get a good shot, which I didn't. It wasn't deep. The last three are temporary drugs; tranquilizers, essentially – those are probably what made Dean pass out. If anything's going to give you trouble, it'll be the fourth one. And I got _that_ out of this book." Claire tapped a dusty tome; her hands were untied now, Sam noticed. Bobby opened the book and started paging through it.

"Why are you helping us?" Sam said.

"Why not?" Claire shot back.

"You didn't seem all that interested in being helpful to us earlier."

"I burned that body for you, didn't I?" Claire smiled winningly.

"Yeah, thanks for that."

"I even dug it up. Do you know how hard that ground was?"

Sam leveled a glare at her.

She sighed. "Seriously, because I don't care. I wasn't trying to kill Dean. And I'm here, I've got nothing else to do, I might as well help."

"That's awfully selfless of you," Sam said. "Or maybe you're hoping Cas'll show up and you'll get another shot."

Claire's eyes flashed. Then she was smiling at him, all teeth and no mirth. "That certainly would be convenient."

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam asked. "You were just a little kid."

"Oh, don't condescend to me," Claire snapped. "You know exactly what happened to me, you – "

She was interrupted by Bobby clearing his throat. "If you two wanna wrap this up, we could talk about the spell, which I just found," he said.

Sam shot Claire a look, then stood, walking to Bobby's side of the table so he could read over his shoulder.

"Alright, here's the "how to" part of it," Bobby said. "And here's the effects. On humans…"

"On humans," Sam read aloud, "the effect is similar to that on angels. However, instead of the separation occurring between grace and persona, it occurs between soul and body – " he stopped, swallowed, "between soul and body. The incision between the two grows gradually and – irreparably. Within seven days at the most, the soul will be severed completely from the body, and the body will – "

The book fell to the table, throwing a small cloud of dust into the air. Sam leaned forward onto his hands, trying to breathe. He stood, suddenly, compulsively. "No, he'll, it'll – "

"Sam," Bobby said. "Take a breath, come on. We have a lot of work to do."

Sam nodded, a sharp jerk of a motion. "I'm just gonna – get some air. I'll be back in to help you guys soon, okay?"

"Yeah, Sam," Bobby said, with no expression. Bobby dealt with grief differently than Sam did, quietly, reservedly, and Sam loved him for it.

Sam let the door slam shut behind him as he walked outside, taking great gulps of the cold, clear air. He'd left his jacket inside, but he wasn't cold, not yet. For the moment, the air felt only bracing, thrilling, like it was setting every nerve he had alight. He threw his head back and looked at the sky, and the stars were so bright.

He breathed out sharply, scoffing at himself, and looked down at the ground. There was snow all over his shoes, in the laces. It would start to melt soon and then his feet would be wet.

The stars were so bright, and the air was so cold, and Dean was going to die.

Sam went back inside.

The first thing Bobby told him the next morning was that Dean wanted to talk to him.

"You told him," Sam said more than asked.

Bobby paused. "Yeah," he admitted. "He had to know."

"You could have let me do it."

"Sam," was all Bobby said, and Sam had to look away, fighting down tears at the concern in Bobby's voice.

"And you didn't have to tell him right away, we could have waited until we were sure," Sam continued doggedly even though his voice was kind of slipping sideways. Claire, sitting by the window, reading from a leather-bound book, was pretending not to listen.

Bobby sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "He's a grown man, and he had to know. Now, come on, son. Pull yourself together."

Dean was sitting up in bed. He didn't look as bad as he had before, now that the drugs had worn off. He didn't look bad at all, really.

"Hey," Sam said, subdued, sitting on the bed by Dean's feet.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean said. He even smiled, a little quirk up at the corner of one side of his mouth.

"We're gonna figure this out, Dean, it's gonna be okay," Sam said, discarding any pretense of this being a casual conversation.

Dean didn't move, didn't blink. "Sam, come on."

"What?"

"Don't give me that crap. This is serious mojo, Claire knows what she's doing, and you're not getting me out of anything. And you're not getting yourself _into_ anything, you hear me?"

"Dean – "

"Do you _hear_ _me_." Dean's voice was like iron. Sam wondered how he doesn't crumble under the effort of holding it together like this.

"I hear you," he said.

"Sam, it's too late. It is just too late, and you know it. You've gotta let me go."

"Don't give me this," Sam was abruptly furious. "Don't tell me to let you go. I know you're scared and I know you're tired and you've had a tough time of it lately, but don't give me that crap."

Dean raised an eyebrow. His face was so cold, and his voice was too when he spoke. "Wow, how much an hour is it for that great insight?"

"I am going to save you," Sam said. "It's okay. You don't have to –" he waved a hand. "Whatever you're doing now. The bullshit."

"Wow, you really hit the nail on the head there," Dean said.

"Why are you being like this?" Sam asked.

Dean laughed, a short laugh with nothing in it, and said, "Just get the fuck out of here, Sam."

And he rolled to face the wall, and Sam was left with nothing to do but leave.

As Sam walked down the stairs, he saw Castiel standing in the living room.

"Where the fuck have you been," Sam said, striding over to Castiel.

"Sam," Castiel said, and it wasn't apologetic, wasn't anything. It was just a greeting.

"Dean is dying," Sam said without preamble. "This is because of your bullshit, which, by the way, you didn't even _warn us about_."

"I had no knowledge of the dagger that Claire has."

"Great," Sam said through gritted teeth. "That's so helpful. Why are you here, exactly? I assume you know that there's nothing you can do to help Dean."

"I am here," Castiel said after a pause, "to speak to Claire. I can at least try to set that right, even if aiding Dean is beyond my power."

"You're –" Sam barked out a laugh. "You're here to talk to _Claire_. Of course."

"I may be able to do some good there."

"What about Dean?"

"There's nothing I can do for him, Sam. I'm sorry."

"That is _not the point_," Sam said. "He's your friend, you're not even gonna talk to him? He's dying. Or does that mean you don't care anymore? I guess we're only worth talking to when we're useful as _tools_ for whatever you happen to be interested in."

Bobby wasn't saying anything, but Sam thought, from the look on his face, that he might agree with Sam. For a moment, Castiel didn't say anything either. Sam wanted to hit him.

"I'm doing the best I can," Castiel said, and that was all. He looked at Sam, one of those long, sorrowful looks usually reserved for Dean, and Sam saw the shock, the sadness that was disguised by his lack of expression, and Sam's anger drained away, leaving him empty. Castiel was mourning too, and it made it impossible somehow for Sam to want to hurt him.

"Where is she?" Sam asked, flatly, looking back to Bobby.

"Panic room," Bobby said. "Shall we?"

Sam followed Bobby and Castiel down to the panic room, where he could see flashes of Claire's blonde hair through the hatch in the door. She was pacing. When she heard them coming, she came to the door. She saw Castiel, and her face struggled through several indecipherable emotions, finally settling on blank.

"Wow, thanks, guys. It'd have taken forever to track him down again," she said, her tone less sure than her words.

"Claire," Castiel said, and Claire's eyes hardened. "I thought it best that we speak, to avoid another encounter like the previous one."

"Great," Claire said. "Well, now that we're all here, why don't you vacate your current address and let my father go."

"Claire, I –"

"I don't. Want. To _hear it_. I just want my father. Let him go."

"I can't."

"Bull_shit!_" she shouted. "Angels can leave their vessels. I know they can. So don't tell me you can't."

"I can leave this vessel if I choose, but your father is no longer a part of it," Castiel said. "This body has died and been rebuilt. Jimmy – your father – is long dead."

Claire flinched as if smacked. "But I – "

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, and he was gone.

"Dammit, _dammit_," Claire said, her voice cracking, one fist slamming against the iron door.

Bobby unlocked the heavy door. "Come out whenever you're ready," he told Claire, who said nothing. He turned to Sam, said quietly, "Let's give her a moment." Sam nodded and followed Bobby back upstairs.

"So that's what she wanted," Sam said after a moment. "That's why she went after the other angels – for practice."

Bobby sighed. "Yeah. And why she was desperate enough to stab Dean; she knew she wasn't gonna get a second chance at Cas."

"At least she knows now," Sam offered. "I mean he's dead. But she can, I don't know, move on."

"Right," Bobby said, dryly. "You see a lot of hunters who are good at moving on?" The look he gave Sam was very pointed.

Sam smiled tightly. "So, you and Dean talked a _lot_, I'm gathering."

"It's what he wants. It's the right thing to do, Sam."

"Please," Sam said, in a rush, "please can we not talk about this right now."

"When would you rather talk about it, Sam? Dean has a week, tops. You should probably find the time sooner rather than later."

"I _know_," Sam said, and it came out like a whine, like he was a teenager who had homework to do, and Bobby was looking at him with pity. Someone was coming down the stairs, behind them, and Sam turned so he wouldn't have to meet Bobby's eyes.

It was Castiel, who said, without preamble, "You were in the right, Sam. I had not spoken to Dean; I was –" he waves a hand as if whatever he was isn't important. "I have corrected the error."

"Right," Sam said. "How was that conversation?"

Castiel spread his hands as if to say _you got me_.

"Right," Sam said again.

"Sam," Castiel said, tentatively. "I don't know if this will help, but…keep in mind that the world after death is broader than you know."

"I'd really like to go without talking about this for _five damn minutes_," Sam said, and left the room before Bobby or Cas could respond. He ended up back in the basement, by the door of the panic room, still closed.

"Claire?" he said. No reply. He pulled open the door. "Claire?"

"What do you want," Claire said flatly, from where she was sprawled on the cot.

"Uh," Sam said. "I don't know. Bobby and Cas won't leave me alone about Dean, and _Dean_ won't leave me alone about Dean, and it's cold outside, so."

"Flattering," Claire said, and closed her eyes. "So happy to be your last resort."

Sam shrugged, feeling miserable, and sank down into a chair. "This might be weird, but, could you talk to me? Just talk to me. If I keep thinking about this, I'm gonna go insane."

"Dean probably isn't something you can just forget about," she said. Sam gave her a look, which she didn't see, since her eyes were closed. "Or, you know, should? He has like, a week, right?"

"Claire, would you please just humor me," Sam said, trying to breathe evenly.

Claire's eyes opened for a second, and she looked at him appraisingly. Then, "Fine. What do you want to talk about? The weather? State of the Union?"

"Tell me how you got into hunting," Sam said.

"You already know that."

"Not all of it," Sam said.

Claire shifted a little on the cot. "I don't know. It was pretty touch and go. First thing I did was I started reading all these books at the library, anything I could find on mythology, folklore, angels. I read it all, looking for something that would make it make sense. The Bible, too. I didn't find much, of course. So then when I was thirteen, I started going out to bars and shit, asking about you guys. Mostly I just got myself in a lot of trouble. But eventually I found some hunters, and I started learning the real stuff. That's about it. I've been training, mostly. It's hard to do. No one wants to help me. I mean, I've learned more just taking classes in fighting and stuff than from actual hunters."

"I didn't realize," Sam said. "I hoped you were too young for it to mean anything. I'm really sorry, Claire."

"I lost my father," Claire said. "It sticks with you." She flipped onto her stomach, her face turned away from Sam.

"Are you alright?" Sam asked tentatively, after a moment.

"What do you care," she said, her voice tired and slightly muffled in the pillow. "I've effectively killed your brother, shouldn't you be sharpening a neck-sized axe for me about now?"

Sam found himself startled into a smile. "That's, ah, not exactly how we do things. And we're not gonna kill you. You were just in here so you wouldn't kill Cas."

"You seem to be doing well with this whole death thing," Claire said. "Like, marginally."

Sam ducked his head, then looked at her and mustered up a smile. "Not so much. But we might find something. And there are other alternatives."

Claire huffed a laugh. "Please tell me you're not gonna sell your soul. You two are seriously messed up."

"It's not messed up. I want to save him." Sam leaned back against the doorframe. "How do you even know about that?"

"People talk," she said. "Especially in the places hunters frequent. After all, we all know the same people, mostly. And…I don't know."

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know," Claire said. "It's like you're trying to keep this perfect bubble. Life isn't like that. Things happen, and sometimes you have to go with it."

"Are you," Sam said incredulously, "seriously lecturing me on the wisdom of letting people go?"

"Just because I know it's what I should do doesn't mean I'm good at it," Claire said. "Besides, my dad was – or, I thought my dad was trapped. That's different."

"Dean said something similar," Sam said after a moment. "About letting him go, I mean. And then something about me getting the fuck out. I think you two would get along well."

"It's what he wants, why don't you let him go?" Claire asked.

"Because he's my brother! I can't just let him, you know, die." Sam spit out the last word with effort.

"People let their brothers die all the time. That's just macho bullshit, right there."

"Well if you put it like that," Sam said, smiling a little. Then, "Because I'd miss him. That's why."

"Yeah," Claire said, and then was silent. They sat there together, in the silence of the basement, for a long while.

The problem was that Dean didn't look sick once the drugs wore off. He didn't get weak, didn't bleed or sweat or cough. The spell didn't have physical effects, except for death. It made it very hard for Sam to believe that this was really happening, at first. Sitting across from Dean at the breakfast table, he told himself _soon, your brother will be dead_, and he didn't believe a word of it.

They were still researching, too, searching for a cure Sam was sure they weren't going to find. It was strange; how he knew with absolute surety that Dean was going to live, and also that there was no way to save him. The two of them, sometimes joined by Bobby or Claire, spent hours paging through books that didn't have the answer. It felt like a charade, but Sam kept at it, mostly because this was the only way he knew how to be in the same room with Dean.

"I can feel it, you know," Dean said, on the morning of the third day, out of nowhere. They were sitting, Sam on a chair and Dean on the floor, in Bobby's living room. "It's like I'm being pulled. Like being swept away." He looked at Sam, and Sam realized that he was scared, really scared.

"I didn't know," Sam said. "I didn't know it would be like that."

Dean swallowed. "It's – I don't know what it is, or who. But they want me to go with them. It's hard to focus sometimes."

"Do you want to go?" Sam asked. For a strange moment, he felt like he was seeing – no, _hearing_ double. He thought he heard Dean say, _I have to stay_. But when he looked up, Dean was staring at the floor.

"I don't want to leave," Dean admitted in a low tone. "I don't know. I don't want to end up in hell, obviously, and I don't want heaven either. Sitting around in some personalized Holodec...I'd rather be doing something. Something new."

"Cas said," Sam said carefully, "he said there were other things. Besides heaven and hell."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Anyway, who knows."

"Dean, look," Sam said, and saw Dean tense. Those words probably had a Pavlovian effect on Dean at this point. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Dean said, in an indecipherable tone.

"I – it's your choice. And I was, I don't know. I've just been trying to cling to this world, this bubble, that I guess we never really had. And every time we try to preserve it shit goes sideways. And we're miserable. So I just wanted to say that I'm sorry and if you choose to go where this takes you," here Sam had to swallow, hard, and look down and away, "I'll honor that choice."

Dean looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. It was a cursory gesture, but Dean's gaze lingered in a way that said the rest.

"Anyway," Sam said, "I looked up some stuff, and there's some rituals and things we should do. Purification, that kind of stuff, just to be safe. I mean, we might as well do it right, right?"

"Oh god," Dean groaned, "you're literally mother-henning me to my grave."

Sam found himself laughing absurdly hard at this. It was messed up, but it was the kind of joke they made to keep things light. Or, not light, whatever. Gallows humor was as close as they ever got to light, really.

Dean was so peaceful sometimes, placid, calm. Sam quickly realized, now that he wasn't avoiding Dean, that he had caught Dean at a good moment to talk. The rest of the time, Dean was more like an injured animal, vacillating between furious and terrified. It didn't help that his outbursts were broken by periods where he had no mood at all, where he was just staring, unfocused, into nothing. Those were the worst times.

Sam got the feeling that Bobby had talked to Claire, because he barely saw her, except when they were eating. Occasionally he saw her out in the car lot, practicing with a bow or a shotgun, using the broken-down cars as targets. Bobby himself was out almost all the time, driving to bars to talk to hunters he hadn't been able to get on the phone. It was wasted effort; hunters weren't exactly community oriented. Bobby seemed to think there was some worth in it, though.

On the fourth day of Dean's week, they sat at the kitchen table, writing his will, Sam trying to get Dean to take it seriously, Dean angrily scribbling _Sam gets all my shit_ and signing it with a flourish. He hurled it at Sam with a vitriolic "Happy now?"

"Dean –" Sam said, or tried to say. But Dean was already stomping off to another room.

He was gone for hours. Usually when he was gone, they found him out in the sun, in the car lot; he got cold a lot now. Today they didn't find him until close to two in the morning, in the shower, scalding hot water filling the room with steam.

"It's getting worse," was all he said.

And so, on the fifth day of Dean's week, everything went wrong.

They got him into bed easily enough; he was sitting up, conscious. But he looked vague to Sam. His hands were shaking. He looked like he could barely see them.

They sat around his bed, the three of them; Claire looking wildly uncomfortable; Bobby stoic as ever. Sam didn't know what was on his face. He held Dean's hand.

"For God's sake, Sam, would y-you stop being such an old, an old woman?" Dean said, and attempted a smirk which hung strangely on his face.

"Do you really," Sam said, rough, "have to be a dick right now?"

Dean smiled at that, a real smile. "Yes. Absolutely. Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam said right back, and kept holding Dean's hand. He felt it, a few minutes later, when Dean's fingers jerked suddenly.

"Dean?" Bobby said. "Hey, Dean?"

Sam was standing, leaning over Dean. "Dean, hey, what is it? What is it?"

Dean looked at Sam, gasping – and fell, limp, against the pillows.

Sam heard Claire gasp before he understood. He couldn't move for a moment, just leaned on the bed and breathed in gulps until he could stand. "Bobby," he said hoarsely.

Bobby nodded and stood. "I'll...make some calls," he said, gruff. Sam reached down and closed Dean's eyes.

He couldn't think. He had to get outside.

It was cold, getting warmer. It would be March in a couple of weeks. Sam sat on the front step. He felt strange; both perfectly fine and absolutely, absolutely not. He sat there for a long time, in the dark, until his fingers went cold and numb. He couldn't see the stars tonight.

After a while, he heard the front door open.

"Hey," Claire said, sitting beside him.

"Hey," Sam said.

"At least you know there's something after death," she offered.

"I'm not even – I don't know. It's just not right without him. I'm not right."

"You have time to get alright," Claire told him. Then, "Come on, Sam. You should sleep or something."

He nodded, numb, and followed her inside.

Sam slept for a long time. He didn't know how long, didn't want to think about it, really. But it was evening when Bobby woke him up, saying, "They'll be here soon."

Everything had been taken care of while Sam was asleep; the rituals, building the pyre. It made him feel vaguely guilty, and also a little bit like when he was a kid and got sick, and would wake up to find his stuff cleaned up, and a bowl of soup waiting for him on the nightstand. All that was left was for him to walk into the car lot, where Bobby had cleared space for the ceremony.

But there were so many _people_ there.

He had seen some of them before. They were all hunters, he was sure, or part of their world somehow. There must have been over a hundred of them, weather-beaten and worn and tough as nails. And they were all looking at him now, a murmur building up in the crowd. Sam felt himself go abruptly weak.

"Sam," a familiar voice said, and he looked to see Missouri, her dark skin fairly glowing in the moonlight.

"Hey," he said weakly. "How're you – I haven't seen you in forever."

"I'm sorry about Dean," she said, "I know you miss him already. But you'll see him again. Not for a long while, but you'll meet."

Sam stared at her. "What?"

"He's got journeys aplenty to travel still," Missouri said, "and so do you. And your paths will cross."

Sam looked down, nodded. "Thank you," he said. Then he said, "I didn't expect so many people."

She smiled at him. "He was a hunter, and he did great things. Do you think these people don't know what he did for them? You think they don't care?"

Sam couldn't speak for a moment. By the time he thought he might be able to say something, Bobby had grabbed his arm and was towing him out into the sea of people, leaving him to stand by the unlit pyre. Sam stared at it for a moment, the shape of Dean's body on top of it, and then turned to face the hunters. They quieted as they saw him.

"So," Bobby said. "You all know how this works. We're gonna light the pyre; if you got something to say, come on up. Sam," he said, quietly, and gave Sam a book of matches. "It's ready, it'll go up right away. Go on, boy, light it."

Sam took the book of matches with clumsy hands. It took him three tries to light a match; when he did, he dropped the match onto a piece of wood low in the structure. The flames spread quickly.

"I've known Dean his whole life," Bobby said. "He was, is, like a son to me, and I couldn't've wished for a better."

A woman took his place, told a story about running into Dean at a bar, Dean flirting shamelessly. She did a good impression of Dean slouching, grinning at her along the counter, and Sam laughed despite himself.

A small, slim man told a story of a poltergeist that nearly killed his whole family, Dean coming in at the last minute with that shotgun full of salt. There are many stories like this, hunters out of their depth or civilians that later became hunters, nearly killed but saved by Dean, and sometimes Sam.

There were a lot of people, and almost all of them had something to say. Claire lurked to the side and didn't say anything. From time to time, Sam saw, behind the crowd, the silhouette of a man in a trench coat.

Then it was Sam's turn, and he stood alone again in front of the pyre, burning down quickly. He dug in his pocket for the scrap of paper he had shoved there a few days ago, knowing he would need it.

"So," he began. His throat ached. "Dean never liked poetry that much. But what can I say, I'm a little brother." Scattered laughter from the crowd. "And I have so many stories to tell about Dean, I don't think one would do it justice. So here goes." And he began to read.

"I tramp a perpetual journey;

I have no chair, no church, nor philosophy;

I lend no man to a dinner-table or library or exchange;

But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll.

My left hand hooks you round the waist;

My right hand points to landscapes of continents, and a plain public road.

Not I, nor anyone else, can travel that road for you;

You must travel it for yourself."

Sam threw the square of paper into the fire.

There were a lot of protection spells that worked especially well on wood. Live trees worked even better, but planks worked well enough. And if you were putting them in place with iron nails – well, you had some pretty good protection going.

It gave Sam a low-level sense of satisfaction as he built the house, nailing plank to plank. It was going to be ramshackle, to say the least; it had started out with a definitive plan, neat corners. But Sam kept wanting to add rooms, hallways, little alcoves. So the house grew, and it was definitely going to be a strange house.

As he built, the snow melted. In the early stages, he was outside shivering in a winter coat until the work warmed him up. By now, mid-March, it was nearly pleasant to work on. He was nowhere near done, of course, and it wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable to work on in the summer. But that was later.

Sam was working on the roof one day when he heard her yell his name. "Hold on!" he yelled in response.

"Hey, Claire," he said, once he reached the ground, by way of extremely wobbly ladder.

"It looks like it's going well," Claire said. "And by well I mean…weird. And strangely gigantic. You're the only person who lives here, right?"

"Why?" Sam asked, smiling. "Looking for some place to stay?"

"That depends on your answer to this question," Claire said, and looked abruptly uncomfortable. "I've been wondering."

Sam started at her.

"If you would teach me. Hunter things, I mean." She shifted from foot to foot.

"Sure," Sam said.

"What?"

"I can teach you," he said.

"Don't make it sound like _Dead Poets Society_, honestly." Claire was hiding a smile.

"'I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately,'" Sam quoted, and was gratified to see her smile. "Ha! You've seen that movie."

"No, I haven't," she said. "Anyway, you want some help with your crazy house?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Come on."

.

_Elsewhere_

Dean woke up, his cheek against dirt.

He was in a forest, not one he recognized, but it looked old, most of the trees tall and broad. It was night, but he could see pretty well; the moon was bright, and the trees, though big, were spaced fairly far apart. He was alone, except for some birds circling in the distance.

Dean pushed himself up into a crouch and stood cautiously.

"Hello?" he called.

There was only silence, then a brief rustle of movement as some small creature moved in the underbrush. He looked around in every direction, seeing only trees in all of them. Except –

Up a hill, he could see a light; dim and yellow. It was so far away, or maybe just so small, that he could barely see it. He wasn't even sure it was really there. In the darkness, your eyes play tricks on you. But in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, Dean had to do something.

Dean started to walk.

It didn't take long to get there. The light was a lantern, sort of; a small, spherical ball that hung in the air outside a small, low building, next to a door. Dean took a moment to stare at it before opening the door.

The inside of the building wasn't like any building he had been in, but it was still, recognizably, a hotel. Dean had been in enough of them in his life to know the feel of them. The lobby of it was long and empty, lit by a soft yellow light like the lamp outside, but less concentrated, a low ambient light with no discernable source. To the left of the door was a desk, a small, round woman sitting at it, twirling a hank of hair around one plump finger, a board of keys behind her. That was all; there was no furniture, no other doors, no stairs. Dean swallowed and approached the woman.

"Excuse me," Dean said.

"Yes?" she asked. Closer, Dean could see that what hung from the board wasn't keys after all, but feathers, feathers of every size and shape.

"I need a place to stay," Dean said. "I don't really know where I am, but until I figure it out – and I don't have any money, or anything – but I can work, or whatever."

She looked at him and she smiled. "A new man, with a new journey. Been a while since anyone new showed up here."

"I don't – " Dean started, but she cut him off.

"I'll tell you what, Dean," the woman said, and he jerked a little in surprise. "You can stay. All you have to do is go outside, to the oak. Climb it and bring me a feather. That's all I ask."

"The oak?" he asked, because there had been a lot of trees outside, and he wasn't an expert on them or anything.

The woman said, "Just go outside, you'll see it." She waved a dismissive hand at him. Still confused, Dean turned and opened the door again –

- and he saw the tree, which had definitely not been there before. It was huge, much bigger than the other trees he had seen, and clearly very old. The moon must have come out from behind the clouds or something, because it was brighter outside now, and Dean could see every leaf, illuminated by the clear light. In the upper branches of the tree, he saw a bird, a crow maybe, hopping between the branches.

Looking at the tree settled something in him, and as a soft, warm breeze began to blow, he felt downright weightless.

_A new man, with a new journey_.

Dean smiled to himself, and reached up to pull himself into the tree.


End file.
